


Answer My Cries

by AriadneBeckett (Jet44)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has Nightmares, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hell Trauma, Loving Dean Winchester, Loving Sam Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Sharing a Bed, Tied-Up Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/AriadneBeckett
Summary: Dean screamed for Sam when he was in Hell. He's doing it again in his nightmares, and this time Sam can answer. When talking and a dysfunctional solution or two fail to help Dean sleep without descending into unspeakable trauma, Sam finally takes matters into his own hands.Turns out the best way to make Dean Winchester sleep is to pin him down and cuddle the Hell out of him.Getting him to let you? That's the tricky part.





	1. When in Doubt, Punch an Alligator

The first time Sam was awakened by Dean screaming his name, he sprung to his feet, gun in hand. His brother was face down on the bed, arms and legs outstretched spread-eagle. His head was thrown back in a scream, and every muscle was quivering.

It was before The Conversation. Before Dean admitted he remembered Hell. Before ripping Sam's heart apart choking his way through the confession of what he'd done there.

He knew Dean well enough to move swiftly out of punching range after waking him up. "Just a nightmare. Let it go, Sam, I'm fine."

Each time it happened, it was an additional night before Dean would even _try_ to sleep again.

* * *

The last straw was the evening a week after The Conversation when Dean punched an alligator. 

Sam unloaded ten rounds into the thing while his brother sat there slumped against the Impala, bleeding from the head and daring it to, "Come at me, you son of a bitch!"

"Problem is, it really was coming at you," said Sam, holstering his gun. The Florida humidity did absolutely nothing for their moods, and Sam wiped sweat from his forehead, panting.

Dean staggered to his feet. "I just ganked a damn skunk ape. Think a gator scares me?"

"My point is, it _should_ scare you," said Sam. "And I wouldn't have had to slaughter some poor prehistoric lizard if you hadn't taunted it."

Dean glanced at the gator with a tinge of remorse in his expression. "Let's get outta here."

"Let's tend to that gash on your scalp."

"No." Dean got in the car, slammed the door, and started the engine, and Sam joined him with a sigh.

 They peeled out of the gravel parking lot, and directly into the path of an oncoming RV the size of an ocean liner.

"DEAN! Dean!"

 Dean jerked, and Sam grabbed the wheel from the passenger seat, yanking them into the correct lane. 

"Whooooo! Did you see that?!" Dean flashed Sam an excited look and what he only thought was a charming grin. It was more of an exhausted mask of misery.

"Did I see you almost kill us both? Yes, yes I did. What the hell's the matter with you, Dean? Oh, right. You haven't slept for four days and you _thought an alligator was mocking you_."

 Dean's eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, flew open wide and he slammed on the brakes in the middle of the highway. "We gotta go back!"

"Uh, why?" Sam's reply was almost drowned out by furious honking behind them.

"Boots! I always wanted a pair of gatorskin cowboy boots. Huh? Huh?"

"So tempted to slap you right now," muttered Sam. "Drive. Or better yet, don't. I don't want you behind the wheel right now. I'm taking over."

When they hit town, Sam pulled into the Orange Gator Motel purely on the basis of their sign boasting the most comfortable beds in town. It was slightly above their usual budget, but he didn't give a crap. 

Dean staggered when he slung his bag down beside one of two double beds boasting white sheets, bright orange pillow cases, and faux gator-skin headboards. His eyes were bloodshot, and Sam couldn't even object when Dean glugged the remains of a bottle on his way to the shower. If it might help him sleep....

 

* * *

**SAM**

Sam couldn't take the screams. Dean was calling for him. The true desperation in his brother's hoarse voice was one of the worst things Sam had ever heard.

He grabbed Dean's shoulder and shook, and he was too slow and sleepy to dodge the fist that collided with his jaw. Sam backed off, sat on the other bed, and held the stinging bruise until Dean stood and stumbled towards him with body language that resembled a dog that'd just peed on the floor.

Dean nudged Sam's fingers out of the way and replaced them with his own, disgusted with himself. He was still breathing heavily from the adrenaline of his nightmare, and his hand shook. But his touch was soft and gentle against Sam's cheek, and he held it too long. It couldn't be plainer that Dean was desperate for comforting physical contact, but something dark in his eyes warned Sam not to touch him.

"Sorry."

"I'd be punchy too," said Sam. "You were screaming my name, Dean. Why?"

Dean backed away and sat heavily on his own bed, rocking the mattress.

"Sam, I was in _Hell_. Literal _Hell_. Excuse me if I wanna leave that behind, okay? If you knew what it was like…." Dean's eyes grew heavy and wounded as his voice choked. "You'd never ask a damn thing that'd make me remember. Only reason I don't put a bullet through my own juicebox is I know where that'll put me."

"I wouldn't," said Sam. "I don't _have_ to know what it was like, I wouldn't ask that of you. But I can't listen to you scream my name without waking you, okay? I can't. _You_ wouldn't be able to look at me stretched out like that and screaming without doing something."

"Sam - when Cass came for me, I wasn't suffering. I was - on the other side. You look at me and see a guy I'm not any more. I was on my way to the black-eyed brigade. I spent - I spent… ten years as the apprentice of Hell's head torturer. I'm more a monster than anything we hunt. I deserve every nightmare. Hell turned me into a guy who deserves Hell, and - and I dread the day you realize that, Sammy."

Sam was filled with longing to hold Dean tight and never let go, but his brother's face told him that would merely get him punched. Dean was no monster, but he was feeling shattered. Dean was good, and kind, and protective. He had been all those things before Hell, and still was.

How to get him to believe that….

* * *

**DEAN**

Dean's mind felt raw, and he was terrified. He needed sleep to be able to cope with the things in his head, and the things in his head weren't letting him. He snapped on a dim bedside lamp and wrapped his fingers around the blankets, trying to ground himself in reality. The mattress and blankets were soft, and unusually clean. Cozy, even.

His head throbbed. His eyes stung. He was dizzy, and his hands shook. Sleep deprivation was a default state for a hunter, and he was used to pushing through it. But this was beyond running on a few hours sleep a night. He wouldn't admit it to Sam, but he'd fallen _asleep at the wheel_ earlier, almost killed them both. And his poor car. Wasn't like she needed to be wrecked again. 

He also wasn't about to admit he was so profoundly exhausted, he really kinda hoped the gator would get in a chomp or two. At least then he'd have an excuse to pass out.

Sam was looking at him with that adorable little-brother sweetness and worry that had melted him inside from day one. But Sam wasn't little any longer. He was strong and tough as nails and smart and educated and a damn good hunter.

He was going to have to talk to Sam, and hope to hell the man would listen.

"Look… Sammy, let me say some things. No interruptions, okay? You can fight me later."

"Okay," said Sam, his voice and eyes gentle.

"When I clawed outta that grave, I was Earth me again. I remembered Hell me, but not like I'd just been there. It was context. Like you know how to act different in a church than you do in a dive bar. You're aware of reminding yourself a time or two, but it's not like every word you say has to be calculated. You just turn parts on and off automatically."

"I get that," said Sam.

"Earth me is pretty okay. Really. So long as he doesn't think about Hell me, or connect to that poor son of a bitch emotionally. 'Cause if I do, oh, boy. That guy is so far past traumatized, it's - it's unspeakable. I couldn't form words to-"

Dean stopped himself and drew a deep breath, wiping at the tears in his eyes. "I became something truly evil, Sammy. Yeah, it took a bit to get me there. If Hell me were walking the Earth, it's fifty-fifty. He might be catatonic in a mental hospital shaking and crying. He might be the worst serial killer in history. But whatever he is, it's trauma on a level you do not come back from, or heal from, not ever. There's no fixing that, get me?"

"Yes," said Sam, his voice sober. To Dean's relief, his expression said he was listening for real, and he got it.

"That's why I'm not talkin', Sam. There's a demon on the other side of that wall, and I'm not inviting it for dinner. I got no need to open up to that, and if I do, it might kill me. Or a whole hell of a lot of other poor sons of bitches. But now-"

Dean wiped his face and tried to keep the terror off it, and out of his failing voice. "He's coming out, Sam. He's coming for me in my sleep. I don't - I can't - I'd ask you for help if I knew what to ask. There is no amount of you caring that'll fix this. Castiel said - what he can do for me, he did when he raised me up. I think he's why I'm mostly okay, rest's up to me."

"Dean?" Sam wasn't arguing. He was trying with every fiber of his being to truly comprehend, and relief unwound Dean's clenched fists. He couldn't take a fight with Sam and his immovable opinions right now. "Why you screaming for me?"

"Because I was alone. And I was _terrified_ , and I - and I was being slowly ripped apart by meat hooks hanging in a friggin void of outer space and I couldn't take it. All I wanted was you to save me."

Dean was too exhausted, the nightmares too raw, his head hurting too much to filter the scrambled mess into something coherent or strong. "Save me, Sammy. I need you to save me."


	2. Dean Winchester's Guide to Coping Mechanisms

Sam's toes curled, and bile tickled the base of his throat. Dean fought evil professionally. Not because he loved to kill. This was the Dean Winchester who as a child couldn't and more importantly _would not_ shoot a deer, because it was innocent and helpless. Dean fought evil because he wouldn't let terror and pain happen to people if he could help it. Sam's sense of justice was sickened by the wrongness of such horrors having been inflicted on a man who lived to save and protect.

"Dean…. When you go to sleep, you go to your subconscious. And in your subconscious, you're - a lonely, terrified, hurting man screaming for your family. You aren't a demon, or a torturer. You're _you_  in your nightmares of Hell. And - I couldn't hear you then. I couldn't come for you and that - that is never gonna stop hurting. But I hear you now. I can answer you now."

Sam looked at his brother's face, shadowed in the dim light of the single bedside lamp. He was wearing a soft olive brown t-shirt and grey flannel pajama pants, his hair messy and his chin sporting the day's stubble. His eyes were bloodshot, his head held low. But his face.... it was haunted, but somehow still open and soft.

This was Dean.

He was protective and tough and the most deeply loving man Sam had ever known. To know he'd become the horror in the night to other souls was incompatible with being Dean Winchester. Dean's whole identity was threatened with shattering, and he was _Dean_ enough to be unable to take that.

"You know - you know how much I wanna hug the crap outta you right now, right?" said Sam.

"Sam, I need you to punch me out," said Dean bluntly. There was a faint hint of longing in his eyes, his only reaction to Sam's hug comment. "Can't get woken up by a nightmare if you're unconscious, right?"

Dean sat with his legs dangling off the side of the bed, facing Sam. He looked small and vulnerable and absolutely zero percent in need of punching. If Dean had grown up protecting and taking care of Sam, Sam had grown up comforting his tough older brother. 

He'd seen Dean come back slashed and bruised from hunts. He'd seen Dean in misery and self-blame after "Letting down" their father in some minor transgression. He'd seen Dean lying in bed silently sobbing and holding a photo of mom. Even then, Dean had tried to shoulder every burden onto himself. Sam was the privileged one who got to see Dean with his guard down, vulnerable and sad, and he loved his older brother so much, that was intolerable. He _had_ to hold and comfort Dean, who always gave in ostensibly because Sam needed it.

"Not gonna happen," said Sam. "Brain damage is not a cure for insomnia, even by Dean Winchester logic."

"You're not getting me," said Dean, bearing down on the blankets clenched in his fists. "The side of me that's been to hell _cannot_ be unleashed on this reality. Believe me, the pain isn't gonna register."

"The answer's still no. It's not about pain. It's about not risking real damage, and it's about how up here, we don't beat our family unconscious when they can't sleep."

Dean stood, and rubbed his hands on his pajama-clad legs. "Fine. Let's go."

"Go where?" asked Sam.

"To the sketchiest street corner near any strip club we can find that even I wouldn't walk into without a booster shot for rabies."

"Good plan," said Sam. "Getting HIV from a human trafficking victim _is_ the best cure for PTSD, after all."

"Ewww! No!" Dean looked genuinely indignant. "Roofies and pot and a little something narcotic should do the trick."

"And when we get back here with bath salts, oregano, and an overdose of fentanyl, we're gonna go all CIA and see if we can't use drugs and sleep deprivation to teach you to mind-control goats? You're about to sell me on the beating you unconscious plan."

Dean's forehead crinkled and he blinked rapidly in sleepy confusion. "Mind-control goats? What the fuck, dude?"

"It was a real thing. A terrible, terrible failure of a thing. Just like your plan."

Dean pouted. "No need to be mean about it."

"Maybe we can get Castiel to, like, zap you to sleep or something?" suggested Sam.

"No!" Dean looked almost alarmed by the idea.

"Why not?"

"Because I've had it with angels and demons and being supernaturally yanked around and - I want dominion over my own damn mind," said Dean. "Look…. My body wasn't in Hell, it was in a pine box on Earth. That means every single thing that happened to me down there was an advanced, supernatural mind-fuck. I felt every second like it was real, but if I can just wrap my head around the notion that it didn't happen to me me, not really, I can be okay."

"Sounds like a fancy way to spell repression," said Sam.

Dean's eyes flashed with anger. "Look. I'm back. I don't know how long I got. I don't wanna spend it thinking about hell, or having you look at me like I'm a puppy someone kicked. I wanna hit the road blasting Bob Seger and punch gators and save people and eat bad diner food and have fantastic sex and bicker with my brother about the finer ethical points of hunting wendigos. Hell doesn't get to have me any more, got it?"

"Got it," said Sam, smiling to himself. Dean might be a bit frayed, but he was still Dean all right. "No unnecessary living in the past."

"That's the problem with all that shrink crap," said Dean. "They can't even decide. Repression's bad, feel your feelings and admit your trauma, but oh, move on, don't live in the past."

"I think it's supposed to be a healing process," said Sam. "Feel your feelings, process your trauma, and then move forward."

"I want you do tie me up," said Dean. "Handcuff me. Try - maybe if I can't stretch out like that, my brain won't go there."

Sam tried to keep the horror off his face. Dean had been begging him, essentially, to not even mention Hell. Now the man wanted to invite his nightmares to visit while he was _restrained_ for them?

"No. Never. Just - no."

Dean drew in a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes. "That position - stretched out - that's where they start. Ripping you apart. That's when - I'm screaming for you to save me. I'm asking you to save me. Please. At least try."

"I'll try anything, Dean," said Sam, his voice breaking. "But do you get how awful that is? Sure this isn't a way to punish yourself?"

"Sammy - in Hell, it's with meat hooks and metal spikes. This'd be so…. gentle, it can't possibly -"

"No comparison," said Sam soberly. "Got it. So let me sleep next to you, and hold you. _That's_ gentle."

"No," said Dean, his voice flat and uncompromising. "No. Sam, I am begging you here. If you have any feeling for what it's like to - just trust a damn request for once in your life, please."

"Dude." Sam paused to get his thoughts together, to tell himself not to bulldoze over Dean's plea. "I'm listening. I'm trusting. I'm caring. But.... you want me to violently attack you, take away your mental capacity, or render you physically helpless.Tell me how that isn't desperate self-loathing? You asked me to save you. That doesn't sound like saving to me, it sounds like you want to be punished."

Dean's face softened; he accepted where Sam was coming from. "I really, really don't want to be punished. I do hate myself. But I just want to sleep without going to hell. If it means I wake up ten times fighting the cuffs because it stops that sequence from initiating, that's better than the alternative. I - just want to be _listened_ to. Please."

Sam's heart broke for the thousandth time at Dean's small-voiced plea to be listened to. It was a broken, nonsensical way to give Dean some small part of his agency back, and probably a really bad idea. But unlike a concussion or drugs, it wouldn't actually hurt him or risk his life.

And maybe when it failed, Dean would allow what he was truly desperate for: someone to hold him and care and not let go.

"Okay," said Sam finally. "I'll tie you up. Just to be clear, when you have another nightmare and the cops bust in here because some poor guy keeps screaming - we going with the kinky sex pretext, or are we telling them you thought it might help your PTSD to wake up _actually restrained_ when you have a nightmare about being restrained and tortured?"

"You're making me sound totally dysfunctional here!" said Dean, his face a sea of un-ironically peeved disgruntlement.


	3. Eating Entrails and Moping

"Fine," said Sam. "But - it has to be gentle. For me to have any part in this. No cuffs. I can't use anything that'll hurt if you struggle."

Dean's eyes softened. "Wuss."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Fine," said Sam, flashing Dean a little grin. "Razor wire it is." 

He stopped grinning and shivered when he realized that could easily have been a thing. Dean wasn't smiling either, but he smacked Sam playfully on the upper arm.

"It's over," said Dean. "I'm out. I'm not fixing to spend the rest of my life, however long or short until I go back down there, moping about it or getting all upset whenever someone happens to remind me things exist, you hear me?"

"You're not going back!" Sam's reaction was automatic, then his throat closed in horror. Surely when Dean died - he'd die a hero. A hunter of monsters, a loving brother. If there was anyone who deserved heaven…. But what did they know about how all this worked?

"Sammy, _angels_ have threatened to send me back twice now. Angels. I can't pretend it's out of the question. I can live now, because this is all I might get. But I'm gonna pass out if I don't get some damn sleep."

* * *

Dean set his jaw and tried to breathe evenly. He laid on his side, got his head arranged on his pillow, and put his arms behind his back and his legs together. Truth was, this did scare him some. Not because of Hell, but just because he hated helpless.

Sam was beyond careful. He used broad, soft cotton rope that was gentle on the skin, and while he pulled it tight, he used multiple loops to spread out the pressure. Dean closed his eyes. He could actually see sleeping like this.

A warm touch brushed his right palm, Sam pressing something gently into his hand. It felt like rope.

"I used a slip knot," said Sam. "A couple tugs should get you loose if you need to."

A wash of warmth and peace swept through him. This was the goodness and understanding and love in the little brother he'd cried out so desperately for. This was something he never deserved to feel again, but needed so much he started crying while Sam roped his ankles together.

"Same here," said Sam, patting his leg. "Grab the end of the rope and pull. You'll be loose in seconds when you wanna be, but I think you can fight pretty hard against these and they won't budge or bruise you up too bad."

Sam had the grace not to comment on Dean's quiet, heartfelt sobs. He just spread a blanket over Dean and tucked it lightly around him, leaving a spot where he could hide his face if he wanted.

* * *

Sam straightened and wiped his palms on his jeans, fighting back tears of his own when he saw the moved surrender and tears on Dean's face. Dean so rarely allowed anyone to treat him with any form of care or gentleness. And Sam got why. Dean responded to being treated tenderly with such heartfelt softness and vulnerability, he couldn't afford it often.

Dean _melted_ when people were soft with him. He was moved to tears by the simple act of Sam thinking to give him a way to untie himself. That made the thought of anyone hurting him deliberately, or most horrifying of all, him being in hell, all the harder to bear.

"Don't be lookin' at me like that!" snapped Dean, his voice small and breaking.

"Look at you how?"

"Like I'm - like I'm something good that - that little brother look. I didn't deserve it then or now."

Sam sat on the opposite bed, facing Dean. "You were more of a father to me than dad ever was. When you got it wrong, it was because you were a kid trying his best to be a soldier and a parent and, oh, fight actual, real monsters. It took thirty years of unimaginable suffering before you were willing to hurt another soul. You deserve love, and if I wanna cry in grief for what you've been through, too bad."

"Sammy, I was evil down there. I - did unspeakable things."

"You did them to souls that were in hell," argued Sam. "I'm sure some of them were okay. But you were probably ripping the likes of Pol Pot and Saddam Hussein new assholes too, so - just give yourself a pass, okay?"

Dean physically cringed, and twisted his head to bury it in his pillow. Sam's stomach tightened. He'd wanted to allude to what Dean wouldn't, just to relieve some of that "Sam wouldn't understand" burden. But maybe that wasn't a place he should've gone without permission.

"Sammy, _dad's_ been to hell. I was in hell. How many poor sons of bitches sold their souls for ten years with a wife who had cancer, or to keep a roof over their kid's heads? Yeah, sure, tell me they deserved it."

A chill rippled through Sam's whole being. Try as he might to comfort Dean, he was pretty sure he could never, ever forgive himself either if he were in his older brother's place.

"I hear ya," said Sam softly. "Okay. There's nothing good here. Nothing I can say or do. Other'n I'm still here for you, and nothing changes that. Nothing."

"It should."

"Dean - you know bein' forced to hurt other people is a psychological torture technique, right?"

"Until it ain't," said Dean, his eyes still gentle, and anguished.

"Mind's an expert in adapting to survive," Sam pointed out. "You in particular have always been one of the most adaptable people ever. I don't think you warping to be - okay - with what you were doing is a sign of you turnin' evil."

A look of actual relief crossed Dean's face, and he looked at Sam with almost desperate hope. "Earth me doesn't want to do any of those things. Like, _at all_."

"He's horrified by what Hell Dean had to do for a reason," said Sam. "You didn't deserve Hell then, and you don't deserve it now."

Dean's eyes went soft and vulnerable. His upper lib wibbled. "Yeah?"

Sam got on his knees beside the bed to address Dean at his level. "Yeah."

Dean ground his eyes shut and tried to get his breathing and emotions under control. Sam hesitated, then reached out and patted him on the shoulder. Dean didn't tense or object, so Sam left his hand there, rubbing softly with his thumb. 

"Like you said - it was a different context," said Sam. "If you don't want to carry the memories and traumas of it up here to earth, maybe don't carry the guilt either? Trust me, you're still good. You're still Dean. Forgive yourself. If you were some monster, you wouldn't be all guilty and miserable, you'd be hunting your next victim. Right?"

"Right," said Dean with a tiny attempt at a smile. "Lore's just chock full of guilt-ridden monsters eating entrails and moping."

Sam patted his brother one last time and crawled under the covers, facing Dean to keep an eye on him and feeling sick. Tying him up was - so wrong. It was such an awful way for Dean to treat himself, and not terribly logical, and masochistic in that self-punishing Dean sort of way. But if nothing else, Dean deserved to have his requests respected right now.

"Good night, Dean," Sam said in a soft voice. "I'm right here. Won't leave."

"Thanks, Sammy." Dean's voice wobbled, but didn't crack. "Good night."


	4. Yes, Dean Winchester has Rescue Fantasies

**DEAN**

Dean closed his eyes, letting the fatigue take him. He knew Sam well enough to know the guy would probably be lying on the other bed awake and protective half the damn night. At any other time that'd be vaguely annoying, but right now, he'd take it. He'd take anything that let him experience trust, or comfort, or reassurance.

The ropes held him tight, and he shifted uneasily, his heart pounding. He clenched his fist around the loose end of rope Sam had tucked into his palm, and imagined Sam's fingers there. _It's okay. Your brother did this, and only because you asked him to. You can get loose, because he loves you and took care to be gentle and kind._

He imagined it was Sam holding him instead of the ropes, and his heart steadied, and he breathed normally again. He was so exhausted, his head spun when he closed his eyes, and he needed something to anchor him. Sam holding him. Couldn't move, couldn't fall. Just like when they were kids and dad had kicked his ass and his world was spinning out of control.

His eyes hurt, his gut was knots of barbed wire, and his head throbbed.

The bed was soft and warm, a pillow cradling his head in a kind of comfort that caressed his face. The ropes even felt kind of nice, if he didn't let them set off danger signals. Sam was holding him, and it was okay. The low hum of traffic on the highway in the distance was his favorite kind of white noise. It reminded him of sleeping in the back seat with Sam while the miles slipped away in the dark under the wheels of the Impala, back when they both still fit and it was okay for brothers to fall asleep together in tangled piles of arms and legs.

Sam's steady breathing in the bed across from his was soothing, and he paced his own breathing to it. 

Tears of relief escaped the corners of his eyes.

 _Sleep. It's okay. Sam's got you_. _Yeah, you'll go to hell. And this time, he'll save you_.

* * *

**SAM**

Sam was dozing with enough of a hair-trigger that he heard Dean's choked whimper of desperate pain. He sat up and yanked the blankets off his shoulders, ready to wake Dean. At least this time, he wouldn't be able to punch. Dean twisted in bed, wrenching so hard against the ropes that Sam winced. 

_Wait._

He hesitated with his hand hovering over Dean's shoulder.

_Sammy, I need you to save me._

What if that were literal? Dean was having nightmares of being in hell, getting - torn apart on some - rack, screaming in desperation for Sam to miraculously appear and rescue him. So what if that was exactly what he did? Could he give Dean what he was crying out for?

With a pain in his heart, Sam stood and waited. Being treated cruelly didn't have much of an impact on Dean; their father had trained any expectation of mercy out of him. Being treated with sincere kindness or love moved him almost to the point of breaking.

"Sam?" It wasn't a scream yet, but certainly a distress call.

Sam took Dean's shoulder firmly and shook it. "I'm here. I gotcha. Let's get you home, shall we?"

Dean's eyes flew open and he stared at Sam in a disoriented daze.

* * *

**DEAN**

"Dean! Dean! I'm here. Hold still. Let me untie you. You're safe, okay?"

Dean forced his eyes to focus. They wouldn't. It was dark and blurry and he didn't want to see. If the bastards were wearing Sam again, he'd fucking murder them through sheer power of fury. Pretty sure he'd actually scared Alastair a bit last time the fucker tried that.

"Get away from me!!!!" Dean screamed. "GET AWAY! I will friggin' barbecue your insides in front of your eyes if you don't let go of me this fucking second!"

"It's me!" said Sam. "You're on earth. You're safe. Hell is over. It's safe."

"I. Will. Burn. This. Place. To. The. Ground." Dean shook his head to clear the blood from his eyes. His heart was racing in his throat, and he grasped at every straw of fury he could gather against the pure terror that was coming for him. They didn't get yet that wearing Sam didn't make this harder on him, it made him angrier and hearing Sam's gentle voice, even perverted like this, gave him strength.

"DEAN! I'm here to save you! I'm here, Dean, I'm here."

A flicker of hope ripped through his chest like a flame, and he looked Sam right in the eyes and screamed in rage.

Sam hugged him tight against his chest, and Dean inhaled, and instead of rank sulfur and blood, he smelled Sam and clean cotton and warmth. Everything was dark and warm and soft, including the hand stroking the back of his head. Sam's fingers created an electric, human tingle through his hair that rippled down his spine and made him aware that his body was there and in one piece.

"Dean. I'm here to save you. Really."

_I'm here to save you._

A wash of relief swept through him, and he went limp. He was in the hotel room, this was really Sam, and he was really out of hell.

Sam. God bless this stubborn, argumentative, sweet as all hell pain in the ass. His fucking sweetheart of a little brother was playing out his desperate rescue fantasies.

"Sammy." Dean sucked in his breath, and choked on his own throat, and coughed. His body was shaking, and he was cold, and hot, and tears were leaking out of his eyes even though he wasn't crying.

"Yeah. Let's get you loose, shall we?" Sam touched Dean's cheek with his palm, and Dean closed his eyes, biting his lip. That touch was love, plain and simple and unmistakable. Love for him. As damaged and tainted and evil as he was. He'd admitted it all, and Sam's love and compassion was unwavering.

Dean started crying yet again while Sam untied him. He _needed_ this. He needed this so fucking badly. This happy ending, this love and care.

His shoulders were sore from sleeping with them tied behind his back, and once they were loose, he rolled onto his stomach and groaned. Sam pinned him with strong hands and rubbed, targeting the sore muscles with uncanny precision and massaging them. Of course Sam knew where it hurt. Damn it. The things a little brother shouldn't have to know.

Sam moved his attention to Dean's wrists, gently soothing the bruises where he'd clearly fought the ropes with some violence. The touch sent shockwaves of emotion through his body, and the tears weren't stopping. In hell, he'd lost every fight, and every cry had gone unanswered.

Castiel's rescue hadn't been a caring or gentle one. An entity he couldn't comprehend had enveloped him in a suffocating wave of power and anger and disappointment, and he slashed and stabbed and fought while reality disintegrated around him. Then he woke up in a coffin.

 _You're safe now_ , _it's okay_ , and _it's over_ hadn't featured anywhere. He'd been launched in a cannon back into life on Earth at full throttle. Surviving, hunting, dealing with the idea that angels existed and they seemed to be superpowered teleporting dickbags….

Maybe he did need some ritual about it. Nothing human or cozy about an angel rescue.

He'd rescued enough scared, hurt humans to know those few moments of greeting and reassurance before getting on with the cutting loose and first aid and hospitals were important. They signaled the end of the nightmare.

"Thanks, bitch," whispered Dean. 

* * *

**SAM**

"Tie me up again, Sammy."

Dean's face reflected raw misery and exhaustion. His eyes were filled with tears, and he looked like only sheer willpower was keeping him from breaking down sobbing. He was so fucking vulnerable, and Sam's longing to just hug him and hold him and tell him how sorry he was that he'd been literally tortured for decades, and comfort him, was a physical force.

It was an ache, and Dean's expression said, _there, you did it, you untied me and comforted me, job's done, get away from me because I'm a badass who never, ever takes more than thirty seconds to get over anything._

But his eyes said, _I'm devastated beyond anything I can comprehend, help_. His eyes said, _I'm Dean Winchester, I love my family and saving people and cheeseburgers, and hell broke my heart._

Sam broke his mind away forcefully. If he thought about his enthusiastic, snarky, grinning older brother actually being in hell, he was going to break down crying, and it was Dean who needed the help here. 

"Dean…. When you're screaming for me, what happens in your imagination if I actually show?" asked Sam, keeping his voice as gentle as he possibly could. Dean tended to take any questioning on his part as a challenge, and the last thing he wanted to do was push his brother into defense mode.

"What, like in fantasy-land?" asked Dean, rolling his eyes as if to mock the very idea that he could harbor fantasies.

"Yeah. What were you hoping deep down would happen?"

Dean looked away.

"The truth, Dean," said Sam a little more forcefully.

"Sammy, don't make me go here, please."

Sam frowned, and touched Dean lightly on the back of his hand. "Dean - I'm not asking you to describe hell. And I won't. I need to know what you're hoping will happen when you scream for me."

"You think a demon can't take any form it wants?" said Dean. "You think Alastair wasn't wearing you when he violated me in ways that - the bastard even ruined the way I feel when you're close to me."

Sam yanked his hand away and sat back on the bed, fighting the urge to vomit. There was no way to respond to that, not with Dean pleading him not to ask about hell or make him remember it. Dean clearly needed to tell him these horrible things, because they came out when Sam didn't ask for them. But how the fuck was he supposed to respond to something unfixable?

_I need you to save me._

Dean needed him to stick to his guns. There was no fixing what had happened, and Dean was strong enough to leave it in his past and hold his head high. What needed helping right now were the damn nightmares keeping him from getting the rest that would help him cope. This was a miniature, earth-bound proxy for Dean's deepest need, for rescue and comfort and safety. Dean was so convinced he didn't deserve it, he was hauling out horrors to chase Sam off any time he got close.

"I don't imagine _anything_ was off-limits to literal demons in literal hell," said Sam finally. "Tell me what you never dare hope for when you scream my name, before I have to beat it out of you. I need sleep too, jerk."

Dean actually smiled, for real. He loved the threat, and that Sam hadn't taken the bait. "Pie, of course. Is it too much to ask for a damn pie delivery in hell?"

Sam grinned and glared at him. "What'll it be, baseball bat or a hotel chair?"

Dean huffed, but the stressed lines in his forehead and around his eyes had been eased. "Sometimes you - take the hooks out of me, and somehow that doesn't hurt," said Dean, staring at the lamp so he wouldn't have to look at Sam.

"And then you just - hold me while I hyperventilate and shake and slowly kinda get over it. Other times - Alastair is carving me up, and you take his own knife and you cut his throat with it and then you - take the restraints off and we're at Bobby's place and you're just rocking me and telling me I'm healed and it's okay, it was all a bad dream."

Sam gulped. "So when we're here in reality, you have me tie you up and you punch me when I get near you. While your soul is screaming to be released and held and comforted."

"Fantasy don't work out in reality."

"An angel raised you from hell. I didn't get to come save you," said Sam. "But please let me hold the Dean Winchester who's here on Earth, and never wanted to hurt so much as a deer, and has a heavy load to carry. Just let me hold that guy, okay?"

 


	5. The "Wearing the Skins of Your Enemies" Stage of Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter: Mild rape references. Not graphic, not literal, and framed in a way that actually helps Dean cope. But just realistic enough that I thought I should mention it.

**DEAN**

Dean closed his eyes, dizzy, perched on the bed with his legs dangling off it. Sam took a seat facing him on his own bed, and Dean immediately missed the safety and comfort of having Sam in his personal space.

He didn't want Sam actually, physically holding him in bed. He just cherished the _idea_ of it beyond all measure. Their room was peaceful and warm, with the soft light of the bedside lamp revealing Sam's ruffled bed-head and a set of gator-skin headboards. 

"You know, that poor gator I punched.... those would be some awesome boots."

"Wow," said Sam, grabbing a box of Kleenex from the nightstand and tossing it to Dean. "We've reached the 'wearing the skins of your enemies' stage of grief."

"Skipped over that in the psych class I didn't take," said Dean. "I'm just sayin', we killed it, we shouldn't let it go to waste."

"So, we could go out to a swamp in the middle of the night and skin a dead animal," said Sam. He pulled one of the ropes off the bed and started coiling it. "Or you could let me comfort someone I love, and we could get some sleep."

Heck, after Sam had tied him up, he'd lulled himself to sleep by imagining those were actually Sam's hands holding him in place, not ropes.

But the idea of Sam actually lying on the bed holding him made his skin crawl a little.

Why?

Internalized homophobia? Maybe exacerbated by running across eyeball-scalding and disturbingly arousing pornographic fan-fiction starring him and his brother? Some sort of macho idea of men don't cry and men don't cuddle?

Maybe. But - nah. If he had a shameful sex secret, it was that there was little he judged or wouldn't try as long as it was consensual and held a core of tenderness. He'd been with some friggin kinky women and loved every second. One hadn't even been biologically female, and she'd used him in ways he still fantasized about. And he cried like a teenager on a soap opera, including tonight. If this was some toxic masculine shit inherited from dad, he wanted to be over it, and now.

Residual trauma? Sure, Alastair had appeared as Sam now and again for the express purpose of looking like his brother while torturing him. It hadn't worked that well, because the bastard neglected to remember that Dean loved Sam. If someone was going to be putting him through hell, he'd so much rather the someone look like Sam than Alastair that any tears he shed were ones of desperate love at simply seeing that face again. Not to mention the pure rage it induced. That alone was enough to sustain him for days. He'd not once looked at Sam topside and thought of "him" in hell.

 _So try it_.

Dean shuddered involuntarily at the thought, as his father's voice echoed through his thoughts.

_"Sam Winchester, it's time you grew up and faced your fears with a gun, not by crawling into your brother's bed like a scared little girl!"_

_"It's okay, Dad."_

_"And you, Dean, you gotta learn to be tougher on him. You're gonna get your brother killed if you don't make him learn how to fend for himself."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"I catch you two in bed together like this again, I'll belt both your asses, and Dean, it'll be your fault. Part of bein' a man is learning that soft is the cruelest thing you can be to someone."_

Dean buried his face in his hands, his gut twisting. _Yeah. Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot. Having to learn from scratch as an adult how to be tender and trust and accept comfort is awesome_.

Guilt drove at him like spikes. _Gonna snark at the father who loved you so much he literally went to hell to save your life? Classy, Dean._

Truth was, Sam had a point. Demanding to be tied up was about the most dysfunctional possible solution to this mess. And just being "held" that much had reduced him to tears of relief.

_I will not listen to my father on this one. This will not get me or Sam killed. Softness is not cruel. I won't get my little brother beaten by saying yes._

"Okay," whispered Dean. "Sam - you remember the last time you ever joined me in bed?"

"You mean, do I remember what dad said when he found us?" asked Sam, his tone bitter. "Yeah. And I remember resenting how damn obedient you were, and how protective you were. Because I'd have gladly taken a belting or two just to cuddle up next to my big brother even one more time. And there was no way you'd ever let that happen. I was young, not fragile, Dean."

"Watch someone you love being beaten, and get back to me," said Dean, his voice breaking. He got that dad's harsh discipline had come from an absolute need to raise them to be tough and follow orders and fast, because their lives depended on it. He neither minded nor resented that. But there hadn't been any more crushing failure and guilt on the planet at that time than failing to protect Sam from it. Sam was stubborn and stupidly brave and caring beyond his years, and Dean broke to pieces inside seeing him being punished.

His duty to protect Sam was wired into his very soul carrying him out of the fire that killed their mother, and it extended to protecting him from the only other person alive that he loved. 

"Watch someone you love get gutted and dragged to hell, and get back to me," retorted Sam.

"I'm sorry," whispered Dean, choking on the words.

"Are you?" asked Sam, his voice gentle.

Dean let himself really look at Sam. Let himself feel the love and tenderness that washed over him when he did. Let himself remember the anguish of standing over his body. He would protect this person to his dying breath and beyond. 

"No. I'm not sorry at all. I - I don't ask much of this world. I'll fight and suffer and endure. But I demand just one thing of it, and that's to have you by my side."

Sam looked down at his hands. "You getting between me and Dad when we were young - I remember. The yelling and - the belt, and you, you took it, and you never cried until we were alone and you always said it was okay, you deserved it. You never did deserve it, Dean."

Dean gulped, and drew in deep breaths. "I had to deserve it. Because I can take pain, and I can take punishment. I couldn't take loving Dad with all my heart, and knowing I had to protect you from him. All those things I kept trying to reconcile in my head - they hurt, and pain drove them out and kept me from breaking."

Sam looked at him with gentle eyes limp with love and empathy. "You are such a good man, Dean."

Those words, spoken with such love, were like a balm on the soul. Maybe, somehow, he still was.

"When I was little, I couldn't ever understand why you would bait people," said Sam. "Especially Dad when he'd been drinking. But eventually, I realized…. It was your way of making sure that if anyone was going to get whaled on in some situation, it was gonna be you. I just wish you hadn't grown up into someone who takes that to absurd extremes, because it hurts to see now even worse than it did then. I can take a beating too, you know. Easier'n watching you get hurt."

Dean's gut twisted miserably. He still loved John as much as he had when they were kids. But he couldn't help suspecting his father's mean streak at play in banning Sam from sneaking into his bed. Because Sam had, on occasion, done it when he himself was scared or lonely. But whenever Dad had punished Dean, especially if it'd been physical, his little brother sneaked into bed with him that night and held him tight. Being permanently deprived of that comfort had _sucked_.

He was about to blurt out, "Fine, then, get your snuggle on, you friggin human puppy," when he froze. He was out of it enough that he'd punched Sam for waking him. He'd awoken to Sam's kind-hearted rescue-fantasy-fulfillment cursing him as Alastair, temporarily unable to separate nightmare from memory from reality. When he'd interrogated Alastair on earth, he'd been filled with a level of utterly cold, remorseless violence that terrified him.

What if he got his wires crossed and went all torture demon on his own sleeping brother?

"Can't risk it," said Dean, startled by the depth of his own disappointment. Apparently, grown-ass monster hunter Dean freakin' Winchester wanted his little brother to cuddle him because he had a nightmare. Wow.

"Risk what?" asked Sam, his voice a brand of soft and gentle he seemed to have developed just for tonight. It was his newfound, _I won't ask you about hell, I won't argue with you, it's okay I love you_ voice. It was free to stick around forever as far as Dean was concerned.

"Coming awake with my wires crossed and you right there. The level of pure violence - I could seriously fuck you up if it's Hell Dean that wakes up with a bad case of the Alastairs."

"You won't," said Sam. "When I woke you up the first time tonight, you punched me in the cheek. You didn't shoot me or try and gouge my eyeballs out. Hell Dean isn't here, you are. And I trust you."

* * *

  **SAM**

Sam hesitated. Dean's whiplash between, "Don't remind me of hell at all ever," and "Let me tell you the most horrific things imaginable" was tricky to navigate. Dean was seriously trusting and leaning on him tonight, and he didn't want to blow it.

Dean didn't do talking things out. He did drinking and punching alligators and ordering Sam to beat him unconscious. But his exhaustion was life-threatening at this point, and Dean, the ultimate survivor, seemed to get that. 

"Question?" asked Sam. 

Dean hung his head, looking like he'd far rather be beaten. "Okay."

The weight in Sam's chest hurt. Dean shouldn't look like this. And when he did, he should be held and loved.

"You were coping pretty well for a while. Do you have any idea what started the nightmares?"

Dean physically cringed, and Sam sprung to his feet and put a hand on Dean's shoulder without even thinking about it. He couldn't _not_ any longer. Dean lifted his head and looked straight up into Sam's eyes, and the weight lifted too. Because through exhaustion and anguish, Dean's eyes still held strength and life and love. The look his big brother was giving him was downright adoring.

"I did it. Here on earth. Tortured Alastair. I didn't want to. I promise I didn't want to, Sammy. Cas - Cas talked me into it. An angel. An angel had me use what I carried out of hell, and that's when the nightmares started."

"I'm gonna kill that angel," muttered Sam.

"I just want a world that doesn't reek of blood," said Dean. "I want to forget what hell feels and sounds and smells like. That day - Hell invaded Earth on my back. All those neat little walls in my mind, gone. And I am desperate to feel remorse for what I did that day, and I don't."

"But you feel remorse for the other souls you hurt in hell, right?"

Tears flooded Dean's eyes in an instant. "Remorse don't even begin -"

Sam caressed the side of Dean's face with his palm. The skin under his hand was wet with tears, and Dean's face quivered with the effort of remembering and holding himself together.

"You're so still _Dean_ , Dean. You talk about the horrific things that were done to you, and you're hurt and angry. You talk about the things you did to others, and you start crying. That's you. That's human and noble and - forgive yourself, please."

Dean sniffed and kept his cheek pressed against Sam's hand, desperate for physical touch and reassurance. "I can't."

"Can you stop punishing yourself, then?" asked Sam. "Hurting other people, turning into someone who enjoyed it, that was hell for you, Dean. That's so alien to you, it was literally your own personal hell. Do _not_ inflict it on yourself up here. If you wouldn't willingly rip yourself to shreds on the rack, don't put yourself through the guilt, either. Don't be your own torturer."

The tears stopped. So did Dean's breathing,

"That's why - that's why - okay." Dean drew in a deep breath, and let it out in a desperate outburst of relief. "Son of a bitch. That really was targeted at me, wasn't it? That unholy bastard knew he was tainting - how I was wired."

"Hell's most expert torturer? Yeah, he knew," said Sam. "All that physical crap was just a warm-up to break you enough that he could slip in and start actually fucking with you on a level that would stick. You called hell an advanced supernatural mind-fuck? That's exactly what it was. It was an advanced supernatural mind-rape. Complete with your capitulation, and arousal, and complete and utter shame."

"Well, that's just peachy," said Dean. He exhaled in relief, almost gasping, and wiped his face. "Okay. Good talk. Let's never, ever do it again."

Sam gave him a little smile and pointed. "Shower's that way."

"Oh, shut up," muttered Dean, a little smile in his own eyes.

Sam sat down on the bed beside Dean, and his body weight made the mattress dip, rolling Dean against his side. Dean didn't resist, and Sam wrapped an arm around his back and hugged him tight against his side. Dean felt small and vulnerable, which was actually a good sign. Dean only got like this when he was relaxed enough to not feel like he had to posture and play tough.

"I believe in you. If you have to fight a little to stay human, it doesn't matter, because you're gonna win," said Sam. He meant every word. "Forty years in hell, and it didn't break you. Not really. Dean Winchester came out of that coffin. And Dean Winchester may've known how to fight before, but he _really_ knows now."


	6. Of Love and First Aid Kits

Sam braced himself to be emotionally honest with Dean. The outcome was never certain. He could be mocked, yelled at, or desperately hugged.

"Dean? Please - don't think I'm trying to make what you suffered about me, okay? Just want to add something."

Dean nodded. The low light, soft shadows, and the peace of deep early morning silence lent gentleness to the mood, and to Dean's face. Jarring and uncomfortable as it had been for Sam, being tied up and "rescued" seemed to have eased something in Dean.

"I think you can imagine if the situations were reversed and I were in hell?"

Dean nodded again, his forehead forming anxious lines.

"Then you can imagine how I hurt for you every day you were there. I'm - thrilled to have you back. But now I'm watching you suffer, and it's awful. Can you just - imagine how desperately I want to hold you and try - what little I can to protect and comfort you?"

"I'd prefer to imagine lying on a beach in Key West, and the swimsuit model that just tripped over my legs and spilled her drink on me and now she-"

"-Insists on cleaning it up," said Sam, rolling his eyes. "Dude, for a guy who gets laid like, always, you have way too many porn fantasies."

"Probably what I went to hell for," said Dean, flashing Sam a grin that was a hollowed and burned-out shell of his usual impish snark.

"You're selling me on the punching you unconscious plan," said Sam. He stood up, huffed, and walked into the bathroom. Took care of business and washed up, the soap stinging raw knuckles.

He dried his hands on the towel, looking closely at the split skin and discoloration. Didn't hurt. He was desensitized to just about every sort of minor injury. They both were. He couldn't count the times he'd caught curious, sympathetic stares from servers or store clerks and only then remembered his face was cut and bruised.

He glanced out the bathroom door. Dean's knuckles looked worse than this - at least on his gator-punching hand. There was a cut on the side of his upper temple where he'd gotten slammed against a sharp tree root fighting the skunk ape.

Unzipping the duffel bag on the bathroom counter, Sam pulled out his emergency first aid kit. Key word, emergency. Neither of them bothered to bandage minor crap like this. It was a battered metal tin, probably originally from the army or something.

It held things like needles and floss for stitches, a tourniquet, illegally strong pain meds, and tweezers for extracting shrapnel. He hesitated. He was operating on some sort of pure little brother instinct driven by his emotional connection to Dean, not logic or psychology or even the reality of how they did things.

He carried the kit out with him and sat it on the bed next to Dean.

"Give me your hand," ordered Sam.

Dean gave him a completely befuddled look, but was too exhausted to argue for once. Sam didn't bother to try and clean the already-closing-up bloody mess of his knuckles. Dean would have done a pretty good job of that with a shower and some whiskey.

Sam squirted some antibiotic ointment on the wound and spread it over the worst of things. It had some mild topical anesthetic in it, and he carried it because he found it soothing when something did hurt instead of just fading into the background.

"What the hell, dude?" muttered Dean, not pulling his hand away.

Sam laid a nonstick bandage over the top of Dean's knuckles, then started wrapping it on with gauze.

"I'm not really sure," Sam admitted. "I guess - it seems like such a up here on earth thing. Maybe if you can feel your injuries are bandaged and cared for, it'll send a signal to your brain somehow that this is reality now?"

He wrapped it snug so that Dean would be able to feel the gentle pressure around his hand.

"Like tying me up, but nicer? That kinda worked, you know," said Dean. "It was nice, being woken up like that."

That was Dean Winchester for _thank you, please don't give up on me_.

Sam swiped ointment on the cut on Dean's temple, put a bandage over the top, and taped it on, smoothing the edges of the tape down firmly on Dean's skin. This was Sam for _I won't, not ever_.

Dean put up with it in meek silence, keeping his head tilted at a cooperative angle. He seemed to agree with Sam that this was bizarre, but possibly worth doing.

Or maybe he was just this desperate to be touched kindly and cared about.

Setting the first aid kit on the bedside table, Sam stood before Dean for a moment. Dean was facing him, legs dangling off the edge of the bed. Sam reached out and cupped the side of Dean's face with his hand, and Dean instantly closed his eyes, leaning into Sam's touch.

It'd been dad's wordless symbol for _I love you_ , and Sam always had difficulty accepting it as offered, at face value. When dad ditched him in some hotel room somewhere for days on end, the loving greeting rang hollow. Adult Sam recognized it had probably been even more sincere because of the absence, but younger him sure hadn't. He would jerk his head away, or tolerate it without returning the emotion. These days, he regretted that enormously.

It _melted_ Dean. Dean had cherished that contact with their father, and as an adult it was an instant access hatch to Dean's softest and most trusting self.

Leaving his palm in place, Sam stroked his brother's cheek with his thumb, and Dean let out a contented huff and opened his eyes. He looked up at Sam with a disarmed awe and love that was quite possibly the most moving thing ever.

Damn it. How in the fucking hell was the universe allowed to throw this guy in _literal fucking hell_?

And how was it possible that Dean emerged with this tenderness intact, let alone his capacity for complete and utter trust? Dean's exhausted eyes were fluid and vulnerable and letting Sam into everything, including how profoundly he loved.

The world shifted around Sam in a subtle way. Going to hell "to save Sam" hadn't really been a matter of self-sacrifice, duty, sparing himself the pain of grief, brotherly responsibility, or any of the intellectually driven sub-motives Sam had assigned to it. It was far simpler.

It was love. Just that. Pure, simple, and complete. Love that threw out logic and intellect and was a driving force of its very own. 

All the time Sam had felt raw with guilt over what Dean had done to save him, and angry at being shouldered with that guilt, angry at having the pain of grief thrust onto him when he'd been perfectly content dead.... If Dean had ever once, just once, looked at him like this, he would have understood. He would have been able to return that love without all of the anger and baggage attached to it. 

And maybe he could've given Dean some better memories and words of love and courage to cling to during his time in hell.

"You _jerk_ ," whispered Sam, realizing he had tears in his own eyes. "You utter jerk."

Dean's eyes were still tired and sad, but he smiled, somehow glowing from deep inside. "I apologize for nothing," he said, nuzzling his cheek further against Sam's palm and half-closing his eyes in bliss. 

And that was Dean Winchester for, _I'm sorry_.

"We both need this. Just let me," Sam pleaded, not pulling his hand away.

Dean reached up and grabbed Sam's wrist, also not pulling Sam's hand away. "Fine. You can go all cuddle-monster if it'll stop you nagging and making puppy eyes at me all night."

With that, Dean swung his legs back up onto the bed, pulling Sam with him. His words might offer grudging permission, but his actions said he was dragging Sam to bed whether he liked it or not. Sam almost snorted. Two Dean Winchester shielding mechanisms for the price of one.

 

* * *

 

Dean could sleep like a pretzel; he wasn't picky where or what position. If it was mildly horizontal, Dean would sleep on it. But his default was flat on his stomach, possibly with one hand on the weapon under his pillow. Sam made a mental note to start checking reviews online of potential road hotels for things other than price and lack of bedbugs. For at least a month, he wanted to find Dean the most comfortable beds they could afford.

Sam sorta preferred to be on his side. And that worked out pretty well. Always had.

He snuggled close to his brother's side, scooching down so that his shoulder went below Dean's and his head rested on Dean's upper arm and shoulder, his arm over Dean's back. He hesitated. When they were kids, this ended with him basically pinning Dean, throwing one leg over Dean's lower legs and falling asleep on his side half rolled over on top of his brother.

Even at that tender age, he'd figured out Dean wouldn't accept being "hugged" or "cuddled." Nope, not the tough older brother. But if Sam half lay on him, especially with one arm around his back, Dean's racing heart and tense body would slowly ease. His breathing would steady and he would go limp.

But now…. Would Dean feel trapped by having so much of Sam's weight on him? Sam got what Dean was saying about Earth Dean and Hell Dean being mostly separate entities. But the last thing he needed to do was freak his brother out even more.

Dean wiggled, putting his right hand on the gun under the pillow and coincidentally angling his body even tighter against Sam's side.

Okay. Sam threw a leg over Dean's and relaxed, closing his eyes and tucking his right arm snug around Dean's chest. He drew in a deep sigh of relief. Ever since Dean had admitted to remembering Hell, Sam had longed to hold him close and comfort him.

It was possible that Dean would wake up in some sort of demon-fueled panic-rage, clutch that gun, and kill him. It was a lot more possible that this would help heal what was aching in both their hearts. 


	7. Hope

**DEAN**

Dean's heart pounded, sending waves of blood pounding at his sensitized nerves. He was so exhausted, it hurt. His eyes ached, his head throbbed, his gut was twisted, and sleep was dread on the horizon, a nightmare lying in wait for him. He forced himself to close his eyes, and became aware of Sam's steady heartbeat. Sam was heavy, all grown up like this. He was pinning Dean the way he used to when they were kids, but it was a lot more immobilizing now.

It was nice. Sam's breathing, the beat of his heart, the warmth and steady calm. The trust and affection. Sam had always tried to comfort him when he needed it, even falsely claiming to be "scared" in the night. Little Sammy had been the kindest human Dean had encountered in his own short life, and really still was. "Kind" and "monster killer" seemed fundamentally at odds, but not to Sam.

Dean relaxed a bit, his heart slowing, seeking to match Sam's steady thump, thump, thump. It was warm and safe, and he didn't have to worry about what to do with himself because he couldn't move without disturbing Sam. The mattress and pillow and blankets formed a cozy cocoon around him.

The soothing weight of Sam's head on his shoulder felt right. It was soft, as soft as Sam had looked standing there caressing his face and just friggin' glowing at him like he was something precious and not a cowardly monster.

If Sam wanted to know how to comfort him….

To Sam, that simple gesture was tainted by memories of their dad. To Dean, it was precious because for all of his faults, John Winchester had used it to show him what love looked and felt like. For Sam to use that on him was - everything.

Fog pushed in around the edges of his exhausted brain, and he gritted his teeth. Lately that fog came with ghosts of red and whispered screams. But right now, it was the color of fresh sheets and sounded like a calm heartbeat. He was warm. He was held.

Sam's breath jerked every so often, and quiet sniffs told him Sam was probably crying. But the big body pressed snug against him was relaxed and steady. Sam was okay, but grieving for him, and that melted something deep in Dean's wounded soul. He was truly loved. Still. He'd laid bare the unforgivable, dark and ugly truths that should have made a good man like Sam forsake him, and he was loved.

Kind little Sammy was now kind, tank-sized Sam Winchester, the bane of monsters and demons. His innocence had been replaced with strength, but his drive to hold and comfort Dean was unchanged.

* * *

**SAM**

Sam pressed his face against Dean's shoulder blade and quietly cried. This was a second stage of grief. The first had been when Dean died. This was for having him back…. But with the knowledge that he was never getting pre-hell Dean back. There were parts of his older brother's happy-go-lucky, innocently gleeful, delighting-in-everything soul that were stamped out forever. He'd never known he'd miss Dean's reckless joy in everything from a pie eating contest to _getting sent to haunted prison_ , but he did. With time and healing, parts of it would probably recover. But right now, Dean was clinging desperately to the framework of what he remembered being, without actually being it.

"Miss you so much," choked Sam. "Please be okay."

"Hey," said Dean softly. "Hey."

It was Dean's gentle big brother voice, and Sam realized how much he sounded like a five-year-old begging his brother to be okay.

"I'm sorry I left you, Sammy. I'm sorry I left you to grieve, and - that you had to watch me die like that, and I'm sorry I came back like this."

"Don't you do that again," said Sam. "Ever."

Dean was silent, and Sam felt sick. This was the curse of adulthood, especially theirs. Promises weren't innocent things offered up with childhood eagerness. If occasion called for it, Dean would glare at the universe and scream, "Do it!" And could he say he would be any different?

If the stakes were high enough, especially if it were between him or Dean taking that ride, Sam would do the same. Because Dean's faith and hope were shattered. But Sam would be doing it with the knowledge Dean hadn't had: The knowledge that a rescue was possible. Even if it took a hundred years, even if it never came, Sam would know hope. Because of this moment, holding his big brother, strong and warm and alive.

"Have hope," said Sam. "You thought it was the end, and here you are. Don't you ever lose hope."

"I'll try," murmured Dean, his voice sleepy.

* * *

**DEAN**

  
Hope, huh?

His hope had been stripped away in stages.

Hope that he wouldn't actually go to hell.

Hope that it wouldn't be as bad as advertised.

Hope that he would endure, because damn it, he was Dean fucking Winchester and they could rip him limb from limb a million times before he would give them one fucking inch.

He hadn't felt like he was condemning his soul to Hell for all eternity when he made that demon deal. But saying yes to Alastair, becoming a cold, empty, rage-fueled instrument of evil?

That was the day he'd lost hope.

That was the day he'd condemned his soul to Hell and become something unforgivable.

But angels had rescued him even after they'd seen what he'd become. They'd had enough faith in him to cut him loose upon the earth, somehow, impossibly, trusting that he wouldn't rape and pillage his way across the continent. Or maybe they didn't care if he did. That thought was a little unsettling.

But Sam. Sam his conscience, Sam who always forced him to stay his hand, control his warlike tendencies, and act with compassion - _that_ Sam - was hugging him tight, grieving for him, loving him. Trusting him and comforting him.

Tears leaked from his eyes onto the pillow his face was mushed into. So hope could come alive again. Dreams actually could come true. Late and bitter, but this was the thing his soul longed for.

Just once more, to experience his little brother falling asleep holding him, comforting him when he needed it most.

Sam, long limbs wrapped around him and a loving cheek pressed against his shoulder, started to snore softly. Dean closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep with hope that he would find peace there.

 


	8. Trash-Talking Demons: A Primer, by Dean Winchester

**SAM**

Sam woke to guttural, pained whimpers and Dean rigid and shaking, barely breathing.

"Dean. Dean." Sam kept Dean half-pinned and hugged him tight, trying to wake him as softly as possible. "You're safe. I'm here. I'm here to save you. Okay? It's over, jerkface."

Dean woke up when Sam insulted him and started breathing normally, letting out a frustrated groan. "Sorry, Sammy," he whispered.

"Enough with the apologies," said Sam. "Go back to sleep. I won't let go of you."

"That was - you stopped it before it got really bad," said Dean.

Dean's heart was beating so fast and hard.... "Dude, your heart's giving me the magic fingers treatment here," said Sam. "I don't wanna know your definition of really bad."

"Not my fault my cheeseburger gained sentience and tried to eat me in my sleep," said Dean. "Don't you judge me!"

Tiny tremors convulsed his muscles, and Sam could feel every hitch of his breath. He made no move to shift away; in fact the opposite. Sam tentatively started rubbing Dean's upper back and right arm. Touch had always soothed Dean before John had convinced him this was something weak and dangerous. Dean was remembering a time and place where things only touched him to hurt him. Maybe calm and gentle touch would be comforting.

"I'd never judge you, Snuggledork," teased Sam. "It's the ghosts of all the dead cows you've eaten doing that."

"Oh, _shut up!_

He rubbed his hand over the prickly softness of Dean's short-cropped hair at the back of his head. Dean used to do that to comfort him. He'd almost bet it was something his brother would find soothing in return. After a minute, the acute tension throughout Dean's body eased.

It was strangely endearing, not to mention heartbreaking, how small Dean felt next to him. He was used to being the little brother in this cuddling equation.

It hurt, knowing how deeply Dean loved him and how much he was willing to suffer simply for him to be alive. Just as much as it hurt knowing what a tender heart this tough-as-nails man had, and what had been done to it.

He meant every word about Dean still being himself, and still having a caring soul. Dean was very much still kicking. But Sam couldn't unsee the new, hard edge he'd come back with. There was a new shadow of danger belonging to a man who'd experienced every possible line between good and evil being crossed.

Sam gripped Dean's chest in a fierce hug, hoping with all his heart that his desires for Dean to be at peace and feel safe and forgive himself and above all _be okay_ would somehow reach him. This might be the only time in their adult lives that Dean would allow this, and if that was the case, Sam wanted to get in all the loving and holding and comforting he possibly could.

"You're squishing me," complained Dean, delight and affection rumbling through his voice.

Sam let go and stroked the back of Dean's head some more, earning a content little huff. An ache lanced through his chest like an electric shock when he remembered the night Dean had been taken. His anguish, staring at the body. This, right here, was what he had grieved so deeply. The Dean who was soft and warm under his hand, who was alive and dysfunctional and sarcastic and heartbreakingly vulnerable and also punched gators.

Dean's rapid heartbeat steadied, and slowly Dean started responding to Sam's worried touches, syncing his breathing to them and relaxing a little bit more with every stroke until Sam heard a faint snore.

* * *

**DEAN**

Alastair gave him a sneering leer before driving the blade deep into his body, and as he screamed, Dean got a flash of recognition. He'd lived this before. This exact fucking day.

He remembered it. Remembered his tears, remembered the exhaustion and the frayed nerves and the pure inability to go on, the implosion of any remaining hope or faith into complete capitulation and defeat. The day overwhelming shame erased Dean Winchester in hell.

"Well? Will it be another day of this?" Alastair twisted the knife. "Or will you say yes to freedom and exhilaration on a level you've never dreamed of?"

It was the day he said yes.

* * *

**SAM**

Sam was awakened from his light sleep by Dean's body tense as a coiled cobra, his breathing short and sharp and in pain. His brother's shirt was damp with sweat.

"Dean," he said softly. "Dean. You're safe. You're safe in bed."

"No - no -"

Sam wrapped his palm around Dean's upper arm and gave it a gentle shake. "Dean, wake up, you're safe."

* * *

**DEAN**

There was a bandage on his hand, and warm weight at his back, steadying him. Sam was here with him. Hell had fractured in some fundamental way. This time, instead him of whimpering a pathetic yes to Alastair, Sam's presence was there to lend him courage to choke out _no_ yet again. Sam's warmth was somehow holding him steady there in hell, helping him endure just a little longer.

But Dean's blood ran cold with horror when "No" slipped out of his lips.

Alastair's face twisted in psychotic savagery, leering at the blade and pressing it against Dean's Achilles tendon. "I was hoping you'd say that," said Alastair, his hissing lisp something that belonged to a particularly vile species of serpent.

_Sam, I can't take this any more. I can't. I'm sorry, I can't. Goodbye, Sam. I'm so sorry._

"Dean, you got this."

It sounded so real, his heart broke. But damned if he was gonna cry on this table in front of the most despicable piece of shit the universe could dredge up. 

_Damn right, I got this._

"Listen here, you sniveling little pussytoed wannabe circus-flea trainer. You're gonna take that toy of yours and give yourself a prostate massage with it long before I ever say yes to a fucking sandwich from you," snarled Dean.

"Oh, Dean, Dean, Dean. You're weak. Weak and pathetic. I knew it the minute I tasted your desperate, co-dependent, painfully repressed soul. You can't even take what I've done to you today, let alone what I'm about to put you through."

"Do it, Beggarticks McSnivelface," he spat through choking misery. He wasn't gonna let Sam down, no matter what. "You're not even dimensional enough to understudy the comic relief in a middle school superhero play. How do you not-live with yourself, being a B-story throwaway villain and all?"

Alastair sliced, but there was no pain. 

"You're so friggin' weak, threat of a good tickle-fight'd have you running away screaming," said Dean, taking full advantage of whatever the hell was going on. Was he seriously trash-talking a demon into impotence? "Listen, bladdernut. You'd need therapy if a kitten killed your pet cockroach."

"Dean, wake up, you're safe." That was Sam's voice.

His real, actual goddamn voice, and when the fuck did the void of all things horrific turn into a cozy bed?

There was no pain. No Alastair. No blade. Just warmth and weight and comfort.

* * *

**SAM**

With a jerk and a brief, heartbreaking whimper, Dean came fully awake and lay there, chest heaving, making no move away from Sam.

Sam just hugged him. Tight, with all he had. Hugged him and held him and loved him. He was warm and solid despite that racing heart, and something about him told Sam for the first time that his big brother was going to be okay. This felt like _Dean_ , strong and no longer cowering in his own bed.

"I got you. And you are so gonna be okay," said Sam, relieved that his own voice came out calm and certain.

* * *

**DEAN**

Dean opened his eyes and let himself feel the relief wash over him like a cleansing wave. Sam was warm and soft and heavy, his weight bearing down on Dean and anchoring him instantly in reality and peace.

"I made it. I fucking made it."

"Hell yeah, you did," said Sam, his voice fierce with pride.

He kept throwing these things at Sam, dark, painful, immoral truths about what he'd done, waiting for the look of shock, the narrowing of lips and the, "I can't believe you, Dean! What were you thinking? How could you get it this wrong?"

He sounded _proud_. Of _Dean_.

_You really think that a little heart-to-heart, some sharing and caring, is going to change anything? Huh? Somehow heal me?_

So, turns out he was wrong about that.

Sam was providing the comfort and support the Dean of the right now, the Dean of hunting depressed teddy bears and getting into it with gators, needed to be the bearer of his own memories and look himself in the eyes.

"Turns out Alastair's no match for a good cuddle," said Dean. "I swear to God, if you turn this into some chick-flick-y thing.... I just told him no, Sammy. In my nightmare, you were there at my back, and because of that, I was able to tell him no."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a possibly amusing FYI, the names Dean calls Alastair (beggarticks, pussytoe, and bladdernut) are all painfully boring, unexceptional American _flowers._ I figure from all the roadtripping and lore, as well as his sense of humor, he might well have encountered them and remembered the names.


	9. Endings are Hard

**SAM**

"I broke." Dean's voice was shy. He sounded weak and rebuked.

Sam stroked the back of Dean's head, brushing his short-cropped hair against the grain and back into place. It was so unlike his own. The tactile sensation and warmth was a sensory pleasure and distraction. It sent tiny quivers through Dean's skin, and whenever he stopped, Dean reflexively tilted his head against Sam's fingers.

"I never thought - I would break under torture."

The devastation in Dean's voice was a dagger to the heart. Not once in Dean's life had he sounded like this, small and ashamed and defeated.

That'd be a bitter pill to swallow, all right. Sam considered arguing the enormity of what it had taken to break Dean, or the unthinkable horrors he'd endured without breaking. But it was like all the other arguments; if reversed, they wouldn't work on him either.

"For what it's worth, I'll take a breakable Dean with your soul any day," said Sam, voice quiet in the quiet room.

For all the cruelty of this conversation, there was a softness in the air. There was softness in Dean's voice. Somehow even a softness in the low hum of the air conditioner kicking on and the green glow from the alarm clock on the nightstand. It smelled like clean sheets and Dean's cheesy pine-smoke Squatch Wash shampoo he'd picked up at a tourist trap last week. It felt like the closest thing to safety either of them could know.

No wonder Dean had been reluctant to talk about hell, or even admit he remembered. Sam understood more than Dean thought he did, but Dean was right. There were no words. There was no making things right.

They were talking about a devastating blow to Dean's entire sense of self. Words would never give him back what he had lost. So Sam just kept playing with his hair.

"Dad didn't," said Dean, his voice small and yes, broken. "It took me thirty years to get to a point Dad never did in almost a century. I broke the first Seal, and now the world might end because of me."

"Okay," said Sam. He stroked his fingers down to the nape of Dean's neck, and grasped it firmly, instinctively, like one would pick up a kitten. Dean arched his neck, cooperating, pushing into Sam's grip.

"You're a human being, Dean. Being used as a pawn and a toy by demons and angels in a war that we know shit about. The sheer arrogance of beings that would set you up to be broken in hell to start the apocalypse? Then saddle you, a human, with the responsibility for turning around and stopping it? Feel angry, not guilty."

"Ow," whispered Dean, his voice rough. He let out a tiny whimper. "Sam."

Sam realized his fingers were digging in painfully to Dean's neck, unwittingly transferring his anger to the entirely wrong target. And Dean was with it enough to verbalize his objection, but far from pulling away, he was still driving his neck against Sam's hand, subconsciously embracing the pain.

Sam released his grip instantly, horrified at what they were both doing. Dean let out a quiet moan of relief and loss. Pain had been a cornerstone of his existence for so long, maybe some part of him found it steadying. But Sam sure as hell wasn't going to provide it. He soothed the probably-bruised skin gently with his fingers, acutely aware of how Dean was pressing back, chasing that sting again.

He finally compromised by tracing the tips of his fingernails lightly across Dean's skin, in a way that couldn't possibly hurt. Dean shivered in pleasure and started breathing easily again. It didn't need to be pain. He just needed to feel _something_ to remind him which reality he was in.

Sickness churned Sam's stomach when the words he needed to say formed in his mind. This wasn't going to be fun to say, or to hear.

"Hell Dean was broken under torture. That's - ugly beyond words. But you came back hurting, not broken. You're a tough man, a survivor, and I think you left behind that broken shell in hell. I think you need to - be willing to just abandon a tiny part of you there and move forward. Hell Dean has to stay behind in the pit, however heartbreaking that is."

Dean was silent for a little while. "Now you have me grieving me, you bastard."

"Good," said Sam. "He deserves that."

"Thank you, Sam," said Dean, his voice utterly sincere and serious. "You were there. Just now, in my dream. It was the day I said yes to Alastair, but I could feel you at my back this time. I could feel the bandage. You gave me - strength to say no to him."

Sam's heart broke.

Suddenly and completely, all of his own strength gone, and he pressed his face into Dean's shoulder.

_Oh, God. Dean. Please, please tell me all of that didn't really happen to you. Someone tell me this man wasn't actually tortured without mercy for thirty years, because that's unthinkable._

_Not Dean. Please, please not Dean._

_This cannot have happened to you._

_"_ No, no, no, oh, Dean, I'm so sorry." Sam didn't realize he was speaking out loud until it was too late, and Dean was gonna go at him for chick flick moments or acting like a girl or pitying him or some crap like that when Sam was breaking inside for him-

"Hey. Hey. Hey." Dean's voice was a warm, human, gruff rumble. He twisted around until he was on his side facing Sam, and wrapped him in a fierce hug.

Sam re-tightened his arms around his brother and mashed his forehead against Dean's chest and choked back his tears.

Dean patted him on the back, and rocked him in a strong, confident grip. "I'm more okay than you think I am. I swear. Thanks for caring this much about a walking disaster zone on two legs. It's nice."

"I just want you to know how much you were - are - cared about," said Sam. "I know you were alone for a really long time. I - I was at your back even when you couldn't feel it."

Dean went completely still, and shuddered. "I forgot - what your voice sounded like."

* * *

**DEAN**

A sense of true relief eased Dean's sickened heart, even as Sam's words hit like a sledgehammer.

_You were alone for a really long time._

Because if a guy wanted to really get down to it….

What he'd done in hell had stained his soul, and he would carry that guilt inside him forever. But what really, really ached, what'd become unbearable, was being alone. Forgetting what Sam's voice sounded like. Human caring becoming a memory of an abstract quality.

There was nothing abstract about the ferocity with which Sam was holding him and caring about him. This wasn't the little boy who'd sneaked into his bed to comfort him, but it was. It was that kind kid all grown up into a kickass monster killer who'd clearly committed a metric shitload of psych textbooks to memory, or something. Actually, wouldn't shock him if Sam had literally done that. Sam always was freaking brilliant, in that sneaky sort of way that spoke in a lazy drawl with soft eyes so you didn't realize it until too late.

He kept throwing these things at Sam, dark, painful, immoral truths about what he'd done, waiting for the look of shock, the narrowing of lips and the, "I can't believe you, Dean! What were you thinking? How could you get it this wrong?"

Instead, Sam was being this calm, gentle leader, pulling him through a complete breakdown with patient love. Sam, moral-arbiter-of-all-things-none-of-his-business, seemed to hold zero judgment.

"Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Hell any more," said Dean. He hesitated, choking down nausea and fear, telling himself to trust Sam. "Thank you - for killing Alastair. Everything about what you're doing is wrong, and it terrifies me, but thank you."

Sam stroked Dean's neck and upper back, his hand steady but his fingers exquisitely gentle, and Dean about fell apart with how that made him feel. He needed it so bad, it sent shivers down his spine.

He hated it. Sam was petting him like a dog, an abused one that needed comforting. Or a lover, which he damn well was not. His brother should not be doing anything to him that could be categorized as "petting" or "stroking", especially not his freaky-ass dark-side demon-whisperer brother.

He loved it. He loved touch, period, loved Sam, and could this please go on for, oh, at least forty years? Why the fuck should this make his skin crawl when it was what he craved so much, he wanted to learn how to purr just so he could get across some shred of what it felt like? Because all he wanted from the universe was for Sam to keep doing this.

He could feel those reassuring, sleepy touches down to his toes, and they grounded him like nothing else, planting him here on earth in one piece in his own body.

"Dude - listen. You had a bad forty years. It's okay to just want to be held for a bit. It's okay if I want to do the holding."

"You can't read minds now…. can you?" asked Dean, fixing to freak right the fuck out.

"No. But I can feel you panicking, and I can feel you tryin' to get so close you're about to crawl inside my ribcage."

Dean snorted. "What can I say? I got you mixed up with a tauntaun for a moment."

"That's normal," said Sam, his voice a sarcastic drawl.

But he kept petting, and Dean closed his eyes in bliss. Everything was dark, and warm. He was sleepy down to his core, and now, that didn't terrify him. 

* * *

**DEAN**

Dean startled awake, and realized it had been a closing door down the hall that'd disturbed him. From a peaceful sleep. Without a hell in sight.

He let his eyes drift shut again.

_God, I've missed this._

This was everything comfortable, and warm, and safe. Sam was sound asleep, not quite snoring but definitely snoozing. And he was holding Dean. He had one hand wrapped softly around the back of Dean's head and neck, cradling him in reassurance. His other arm was around Dean's back, keeping him tucked firmly at Sam's side.

He couldn't radiate, _I've got you, you're safe, sleep tight_ any more intensely if he were a neon sign. Dean let his eyes drift shut again. No way was he disturbing this shit. No friggin clue how him having nightmares had morphed into the two of them role-playing that they were six again, but he kinda loved it a lot. He felt all kinds of wanted and trusted and cozy, and this closeness was one of the best things on the planet. If there was a polar opposite of hell, it was this, right here.

A broken soul couldn't cherish this.

There was nothing supernatural or meaning-laden about his nightmares, no magical window to Alastair. Sam was right. He was just him. A little scarred, a little off his game, and with some really awful memories, but him.

He let out a little sigh of pure contentment. Reverence. For just how damn good human beings could be, especially this one.

This was everything softness and trust and just plain right, and he was drifting away to sleep. He struggled to hold his eyes open, not because of the nightmares but because he wanted to be present for this. This wonderful, sleepy, snore-y cocoon of Sam and blankets was like being wrapped in total bliss. But the longer his eyes stayed closed, the more right it felt.

* * *

**SAM**

Sam cracked one eye open, and his whole being melted. Light was fighting its way through the curtains, but Dean was still sound asleep. He was snoring softly, and sometime in the night, he'd twisted his head around so that his forehead was lodged firmly against Sam's shoulder. Typical pretzel Dean.

He chuckled to himself. Grownup Dean was absurdly cuddly. Like tired puppy levels of cuddly. The reason the guy was snoring was likely that he could barely get air in through his nose, with how firmly his face was pressed against Sam's shoulder. His body seemed twisted in about three different directions. He was somehow lying face down, but with an arm wrapped around Sam's back, and…. He was in Sam's arms, but holding him at the same time, and - ow. The jerk better not dislocate something in his sleep and blame Sam for it.

_Dean, you cuddle like a girl._

A very flexible girl.

Or a pit bull puppy.

Or…. Like Dean Winchester, stone cold badass fighter of monsters and demons, fierce protector of little brothers, and survivor of literal hell.

Yeah. That.

_Dean, you cuddle like a badass._

Dean was back from hell, for real, and Sam wanted to do nothing but play him Westerns and enroll him in gator-wrestling class and find him some low-level official bully to get into a snark-off with and take him on a tour of a mildly haunted brewery. Everything Dean that was him and gleeful and absurd.

Sam closed his eyes and resolved not to move so much as a muscle until his brother awoke. 

* * *

**DEAN**

Dean woke up to complete bliss. In hell, he'd forgotten love. What it felt like to be on either end of it. But here, now, was everything good and human. He was forgiven and accepted. And twisted up like a pretzel, and couldn't feel one of his arms, and he needed to take a leak, but so deeply, incredibly comfortable, he had no intention of moving or letting on he was awake.

He could lie here like this forever, or at the very least until Sam woke up.

Being loved like this, held like this…

His role with Sammy had started out as much fatherly as brotherly. Whenever he heard folks say they'd sacrifice everything for their kids without hesitation, yeah. That was him. He'd walk right back into hell for this kid.

Sam taking charge, comforting and leading him - it was uncomfortable, 'cause that was _Dean's_ job.

Dean's job was to love. Yeah, there was fighting and protecting and squabbling and getting laid and tracking monsters and all that, but he'd been put on this earth to carry Sammy out of that fire and never stop doing so. It was his reason for existing, and he needed that to not break apart and dissolve into nothing just because Sammy turned into Sam.

This wasn't dissolving. This was discovering that grown-up Sam loved him and needed him. Would set aside his innate fucking drive to question and challenge everything in order to simply love and support an exhausted, borderline delirious guy who was frantically punching gators and trying not to dissolve into a trembling mess.

This was Sam holding him tight all night long, being a damn human transmitter for _no matter what you did, no matter how fucked up you are, you're still worth loving._

No. Not that fancy.

_You will never be forsaken, no matter what._

Tears flooded Dean's closed eyes. His deepest fear was never going to come true.

* * *

**SAM**

Sam finally, reluctantly shifted out of pure discomfort, hoping he could get away with un-kinking his shoulder without waking Dean. He watched closely; Dean's rhythmic breathing continued with barely a twitch.

And then Dean opened one eye. 

One very awake eye.

One very awake and _twinkling_ eye.

The sheer relief and joy of seeing him like that made Sam snicker out loud. This was _Dean_ , in all his infuriating, impossibly endearing glory.

"Anybody ever tell you that you cuddle like a badass?"

Dean blinked, and followed that up with a slower, more exaggerated blink. "No. Literally no one says that. To anyone. Ever."

He looked suspiciously proud, though.

* * *

 

**SAM**

Sam dressed and exited the bathroom after his morning shower, still marveling at the joys of real water pressure and a shower big enough for him to actually fit. This decent-hotels thing didn't take much getting used to. 

Dean was sitting at the tiny table next to the window, still in his sleep shirt and pajama pants, his hair aimed every which way. His shoulders were rounded, and he was kicked back in his chair with a relaxed slouch. He was smirking at something in the _Welcome to Gator Country: Top 10 Attractions for Families_ brochure in his hands.

He looked up and grinned at Sam. "Did you know the coffee pot in this joint actually works? Made you a cup." He picked up his own mug and nodded across the table where he'd positioned Sam's, complete with sugar and creamer packets and a little paper napkin in a plastic bag.

_Damn it, you need to shower so we can get on the road._ Sam thought it, but didn't voice it, and immediately dropped the notion, tossing his duffel bag on his bed and going over to the little table he was gonna have to fold himself in half to sit at. Dean could have this. It was such a relief to see Dean relaxed, and smiling for real instead of having a fake grin plastered on his face, that he didn't care when they got to Pensacola. 

"Why you looking at me like I'm your puppy and someone kicked me?" complained Dean.

"Because somebody kicked you," said Sam, and accidentally kicked Dean's leg in the course of positioning himself on a chair built for people aged ten and under.

Dean's face softened, then completely crumbled. He looked like Sam was ten again and worried about him getting hurt on a hunt. "Thanks for caring. Now stop. Please."

"Oh, okay. I'll stop caring about the only family I have in this world," said Sam.

"You know what I woke up knowing for the first time this morning?" asked Dean. "That I was really out. That it was really over. And that maybe -" his voice broke. "Maybe I can be forgiven. Who by, I dunno. Ain't gonna be me. But maybe."

Sam sighed, taking in the carefully prepared and positioned cup of coffee in front of him. Dean's view was of concrete privacy lattice. Sam's chair looked out on a palm tree shading the Impala, with the shimmering blue of an outdoor swimming pool behind it. "Look. I know you won't admit it, even to me, but you're kind."

* * *

**DEAN**

"Yeah, _kind_ of an asshole," said Dean, starting to smirk at Sam before he realized he was scoring points against himself. 

A hearty eye-roll was Sam's retort. "That too. But a _kind_ kind-of-an-asshole."

"I'm really not," said Dean, his voice going and breaking on him. Shit.

His gut twisted when he remembered the day Castiel had asked him to torture Alastair. He'd had nobody to convince or impress there. The polar opposite of compassion for the vile sack of sniveling shit chained up in the next room. But he'd choked up, barely able to keep from crying when he thought about opening the door to that side of himself. It'd been pure misery, thinking about bringing that topside.

"Yes," said Sam, his face gentle but his voice almost stern. "You are."

His soul had been heartbroken at the concept. He'd felt utterly sick to his stomach when Uriel called him the most qualified interrogator they had. Was it possible to be kind, while not feeling kind or even acting it?

_You got the chance to torture the demon who made your hell, the being you loathed most, the one you planned revenge on for decades, and your visceral reaction was to cry._

That wasn't how a sadist reacted.

It'd been Castiel's grave kindness towards him that'd finally gained his consent. His compassion for an angel who was developing empathy with humans and getting shit on for it by his entire chain of command. The fear that the one decent angel in the whole goddamned lot would be next on the kill list.

"Just step back, take a good look at Hell Dean and everything that poor bastard went through just because he loved his brother. If he were anyone but you, wouldn't you forgive him?"

Dean looked out the window, at a point so distant, it certainly wasn't on this planet. But the underlying anguish that was in his heart any time he talked about hell eased. "Yeah. Absolutely I would. I'd do a lot for that guy."

Dean walked into the bathroom and sized himself up in the mirror the way he would a stranger. He saw a pretty okay guy looking back at him. That guy in the mirror looked competent and maybe even, on a good day, kind. He could help people and save people.

Sam wasn't wrong after all, about the whole self-punishing aspects of his solutions to the nightmare problem. None of 'em had been intended that way; he'd have been relieved if Sam just punched him out. But from an broader perspective - yeah, he'd been asking his own brother to control him like a dangerous beast.

That guy in the mirror looked sleepy and kinda needed a shave, but no innocent person had need to fear him. He'd put his life on the line for a lot of not-so-innocent folks, too.

Sam had just shown him that the way through his nightmares wasn't being knocked out or tied down or treated like the monster, even though he felt like he should be. It was to have empathy for that broken Dean Winchester back in hell, and to accept that the Dean walking this earth was an okay guy.

A guy Sam still loved, and Sam didn't love monsters or psychopaths. Sam trusted him enough to sleep in bed with him with a loaded firearm at his fingertips, even knowing he would have violent nightmares and was so exhausted as to be delirious.

If he could save people from horrible fates now, protect them and rescue them, he could carve out some peace. Maybe that was atonement, not tormenting himself but protecting others from horror and fear and pain here on earth.

He'd always loved doing that, still loved doing that. Yeah, it got old digging up graves and wandering through sewers and getting thrown against walls. But there was nothing in the world like knowing he'd kept someone safe.

What I love, what I'll go through hell on earth for, is the honor of saving people. Is that how murderous psychopaths think? Doubt it. So wash the blood off your hands, hold your damn head high, and get to work.

Fuck you, Alastair. You didn't break me.

You broke my faith, my will, and my heart.

You'll never break _me_ , not really.

I'm Dean Fucking Winchester, and I _fight_ monsters and demons.

And I win.


End file.
